


The Pull Of You

by redredred



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anchors, Angst with a Happy Ending, Intimacy, Light Angst, M/M, Spoilers for MAG 159
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22549435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redredred/pseuds/redredred
Summary: What was it you always said?We're connected by a threadIf we're ever far apartI'll still feel the pull of youHow Martin and Jon find their way back to each other.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 16
Kudos: 168





	The Pull Of You

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary taken from "The Pull of You" by The National.

“That absolute _idiot_!”

Martin’s head snaps up as he hears Melanie’s voice coming through the door to his office. She stomps up to his desk, her face red and twisted in anger.

“Stupid fucking bastard, I can’t believe—”

Martin gets up from his chair and holds a hand out. “Sorry, what—what is going on? Who’s a stupid fucking bastard?”

“Who do you _think_.” She slams a recorder onto his desk.

He flinches and leans away. “O…kay,” he says. “What—”

“Just _listen_ ,” she interrupts and slams the play button. Her chest is heaving and her shoulders shake.

_“Hello, Melanie.”_

Martin inhales sharply as Jon’s voice rises from the recorder.

_“I know I said we’d wait until Basira was back, b—but I don’t…I’m sorry. I know she won’t—she’d want to do it a different way.”_

Cold creeps up from the pit of Martin’s stomach. “What is he talking about?” he asks, glancing over at Melanie. Her lips are pressed in a thin line—she doesn’t reply. He takes a shaky breath and turns his attention back to the tape.

_“I’m not risking anyone else. And I know…I—I think—I can get her out.”_

Martin stares intently at the recorder, but only a faint static remains. Melanie clicks it off and looks up at Martin. The anger has drained from her face, and now her knit brows and frown now speak to worry. Martin’s hands are clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. “Melanie?”

She breathes a heavy sigh. “You know about the coffin, I assume.”

Martin’s heart hammers in his chest, and he nods slowly. “Somewhat, yes.” The words barely leave his throat. “I know it was delivered a few days ago.”

“Is that all you know?”

He narrows his eyes. “What are you trying to say?” His tone is sharp.

“What I’m _trying_ to do is help fill you in,” she retorts. “So I’d appreciate if you didn’t snap at me.”

He nods once, his lips pressed together. “Right. Sorry.”

“The coffin,” she continues, “is a gateway to the Buried.”

Martin’s mouth turns dry and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth. “And—Jon…”

“Yeah,” she whispers. “He—he went in. To find Daisy.”

A ringing fills Martin’s ears. “When?”

“I can’t say for sure,” she says. “I don’t think more than a few hours.”

“Where is it?”

She scoffs. “What, are you going to go after him?”

“ _Melanie_ ,” he chokes out. “Please. I just—I need to see it.”

She studies him for a handful of seconds, then sighs and nods once. “Fine. But don’t count on me to stop you from doing anything stupid.”

He clenches his teeth and nods. “I know.”

She leads him to a storage rooms on a lower level. The coffin stands out starkly in the middle of the room, surrounded by shelves littered with folders and books. Martin slowly approaches it, stopping an arm’s length away. Now that he’s here, his mind is blank. He only manages to stare at it. What _did_ he even come down here for?

Something catches on the corner of his eye. He looks over to see a curved, thin, white object sitting on a desk next to the head of the coffin. Furrowing his brow, he steps towards it. “What is—that?” he mutters.

“Did you not know?” He turns at Melanie’s voice and shakes his head. “Well, given that you’ve cooped yourself up with some spooky nonsense these past few months, I guess that’s not too surprising.”

“It’s not—” He cuts himself off with a sigh and shakes his head. “What _is_ it?”

She lets out a hollow laugh. “It’s Jon’s rib.”

He gapes at her. “His—his rib.”

“That’s what I said.” There’s no hint of humor in her tone.

His stomach churns and he claps a hand over his mouth. “ _Why_ is Jon’s _rib—what?_ ”

“He had it taken out by one of the— _things_ that attacked the Institute.” Her arms tremble slightly as they wrap around her middle. “Could mess with bones or something like that.”

“Jared Hopworth,” he whispers. “But—but wasn’t he trapped behind that—her— _its_ door?”

“ _Was_ , yeah. Jon apparently cut a deal with him for one of his ribs.”

“But—but _why_?”

“To use as an anchor,” she says with a half shrug. “According to Jon.”

He clasps his hands over his head. “Right. Right.”

“You _really_ didn’t know any of this?” Melanie asks, her brows furrowed. “Just—completely isolated from everything going on.” It’s less of an accusation and more genuine bewilderment.

“Yes, I’m aware of that, thank you,” he snaps.

“Right,” she says, scoffing and rolling her eyes. “I can see I’m no longer needed here.” She turns on her heel and heads towards the door.

Martin runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Melanie.”

She stops in her tracks, but doesn’t turn around.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “For letting me know.”

She glances back at him, then nods once and leaves the storage room.

Martin turns his gaze back to the coffin. He decidedly tries not to think about the rib— _Jon’s_ rib, _Christ_ —sitting only a few feet away. Sliding a hand out, he runs it over the lid of the coffin. The warmth of it is uncanny under his fingers. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end—but he doesn’t withdraw his hand.

“You tried to tell me, didn’t you.” His words ring out in the empty room. They won’t penetrate the thick wood of the coffin. “I could have stopped you, but I—” He takes a shaky breath. “I only pushed you away.”

Gritting his teeth, he digs his nails into the wood. He rakes them down, slowly, and leaves a thin line of scratches in their wake. A hiss escapes through his teeth as a splinter digs under his nail. He yanks his hand back, his eyes watering. A few droplets of blood mark the gouges left by his nails, and he cradles his hands to his chest.

“Really, you just come out of a coma and this is what you do?” He rubs at his stinging eyes. “Are you really so ready to toss your life away?” His shoulders shake as he swallows back a sob. “For—for _her_?”

The days, weeks, months that passed as Martin watched Jon sleep. His chest and mouth unmoving, the grey pallor that overtook his dark skin. The rapid movement under his eyelids the only sign he was still alive. Martin’s hope at Jon ever waking dwindling to nothingness.

“I just got you back.” The words barely make a sound as they leave his lips. A vision of Jon, eyes glassy and lifeless as he sinks deep into the earth without resistance, flashes into his mind.

Panic jolts through him and he backs away. Bile rises in his throat and he sinks his teeth into his lip to muffle a whimper. He takes off his glasses and rubs forcefully at his eyes, then strides away from the coffin without a backwards glance.

Back in his office, he slumps down in his chair and buries his face in his hands. His shoulders shake with his shallow, unsteady breathing. He shakes his head in an attempt to banish the lingering image in his mind. When that doesn’t work, he reaches with a shaky hand to turn the computer on. The dull glow of the monitor is familiar, if not exactly comforting, and that’s enough to work as a distraction. He absorbs himself in the sound of the keyboard clacking as he types. The recorder on his desk lies still and quiet. If Peter is there, he doesn’t make his presence known. The hours pass in a dull haze, until Martin realizes with a start that he’s stayed an hour late.

As he leaves, his eyes catch on the tape recorder. He grabs it and sticks it in his bag, which he cradles to his chest as he heads home on the tube. He only pulls it out to set it on his nightstand, by his clock, where it sits facing his bed.

It stays silent.

* * *

He visits the coffin the next day, then the next. He’s hardly able to sleep—his gut twisted with a mixture of worry and anger. He carries the recorder around with him everywhere he goes, though he can’t bring himself to listen to Jon’s voice.

Martin clasps it in his hand as he stands in front of the coffin. This might be the last real connection he has to Jon, he thinks. Jon’s office, though often cluttered with case files and tapes, was kept clear of personal items. If nothing else, Jon has spent years recording statements using these recorders. And the machines themselves only seem to respond to Jon’s presence—Martin noted their absence during his coma.

The recorder clicks on in his hand, and he jumps, before realizing he’d pushed down on the play button. He lets out a shaky breath as Jon’s voice is played back. He closes his eyes and grips the recorder in both hands. Jon’s voice brings a sharp pang to his chest. Opening his eyes, he takes a deep breath and places the recorder on the lid of the coffin.

There’s no sudden revelation, no heroic entrance where Jon bursts through the lid. But he rushes out of the storage room, his feet taking him to Jon’s office. He picks up every recorder he can find, ending up with a small stack. They’re balanced precariously in his arms and he gingerly carries them back to the coffin. One by one, he places them on the lid. When he’s done, he turns them all on, until the room is filled with a cacophony of voices overlapping.

If Martin’s voice can’t reach him, maybe something closer to Jon can.

Basira passes by his office about an hour later and Martin is sure of where she’s heading. He doesn’t expect to hear her emerge a few minutes later with both Jon and Daisy in tow. The sound of Jon’s voice, not coming from the staticky veil of the recorder but from Jon himself, jolts him out of his chair.

Martin fades from view as they pass his office, and he follows after them. Daisy and Jon both look—horrible, frankly, covered from head to toe in dirt and grime. But they’re both alive—Jon is _alive_. He catches himself before he reaches out for him. He’s alive, but he still can’t see him. He shouldn’t even be here.

That stops him in his tracks. He watches their backs until they round the corner—and they’re gone from his view.

Jon is alive, and that’s all the matters.

That’s what he’s doing all of this for, isn’t it?

* * *

“Peter. It’s time.”

Elias— _Jonah_ has an insufferable, smug smile that even seeps into his voice. Peter, on the other hand, looks deflated, his shoulders slumped and his lips pressed tightly together.

“Fine,” Peter huffs.

Looking between the two of them with his brows furrowed, Martin crosses his arms over his chest. “Great. Now perhaps one of you, then, can tell me what’s…”

He’s cut off by harsh static ringing in his head. He doubles over with a groan and clasps his hands over his ears. There’s the sensation of his body being thrown forward and he barely has enough time to scream. With a sharp jolt, he lands hard on his hands and knees. His glasses are jostled off his face. Underneath his hands is something coarse and dry—sand? He fumbles around for his glasses. He gets to his knees and wipes the sand from his glasses, putting them back on with shaking hands.

In front of him him is a beach that seems to stretch on for miles. The sky is a dull grey, wholly blotted out by clouds, and a thin fog hangs in the air. The waves crest against against the shore in a rhythmic pattern.

“Hello?” he calls out. The air itself seems to stifle his voice as soon as it passes his lips. There’s only a faint chill in the air, but he shivers and wraps his arms around his waist.

“Peter?” He projects his voice louder, but there’s still no answer. He glances around and shuffles forward. The scenery doesn’t change no matter how far he walks—it’s all the same stretch of shapeless grey beach.

But with each step he takes, a fog slips into his mind, dulling his thoughts. He groans and shakes his head, but the sensation remains. He doubles over and grips his head.

“You called?”

Martin cranes his neck up at the familiar voice. Peter stands in front of him, holding out his arms. There’s a sharpness to his gaze and a thin smile is on his lips—but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Feeling comfortable?” He glances at Martin and chuckles mirthlessly. “No, I suppose not. But you will, soon enough.”

Martin opens his mouth to protest, but the words die in his throat. The fog gathers thick around him. He can barely see Peter past it. His head slumps forward, gaze resting on his hands digging into the sand. The lines of his form are blurred at the edges and a cold grey is washing over his skin.

“You’re already taking to it so quickly,” Peter says. The shadow of his form drapes over Martin as he leans above him. “You belong here—here, where you don’t have to worry about being hurt, or scared.” He scoffs. “Or silly little crushes.”

Martin manages to shake his head. “I—I don’t want—”

“There’s a reason I chose you,” Peter continues, ignoring his protests. “I could tell—we’re the same. Though I suppose I had it easier than you—I never wanted to fit in.” He kneels down in front of Martin. “You, though—there never seems to be a place for you, does there?”

Tears sting at Martin’s eyes, the only sensation to cut through the numbness enveloping him. Peter lifts his chin up and makes Martin meet his eyes. “Nowhere except here, that is.”

Martin takes in shallow, gasping breaths. He can barely breathe around the fog that creeps up through his throat, his nose. A jolt of panic rises through him, but fades just as quickly. The will to protest—to do _anything_ —seeps from him. Peter lets go of his chin and his neck slumps forward to rest against his chest.

“There’s a comfort, in loneliness. In knowing there’s somewhere only for you, undisturbed by frivolous distractions. It’ll be easier if you just accept it.” He shrugs and stands back up. “Or don’t. It makes little difference to me, truth be told. You’ll be of this place, sooner or later.”

The shadow over Martin disappears, but he doesn’t lift his head. A dull ache throbs behind his eyes. He stays kneeling and stares at his hands buried in the sand as the sound of the waves crashing against the shore roars in his ears.

Time is stood still around him. Gingerly, Martin lifts himself to his feet. The horizon blurs into the sea, which blurs against the shore. The fog has thinned, but everything is washed in a sheet of grey. There’s no color to be seen, even on Martin’s own skin. His feet carry him forward along the beach and he walks listlessly along.

He spots a figure in the distance. He recognizes them—the mess of black hair streaked with grey, tawny brown skin speckled with small scars, face framed by the metallic wiring of glasses, clothes rumpled and disheveled. Their features are obscured by a haze of fog, but recognition clicks with Martin.

 _Jon_. He opens his mouth, but the name don’t leave his throat.

“Martin!”

The dullest of pangs shoots through Martin’s chest, and it’s all he can do to force the word out.

“Jon?”

Jon steps closer to him. Even this close, Martin can’t make out his expression, still shrouded in fog.

“I—I’m here,” Jon says. Jon lifts a hand towards Martin, but he’s just out of arm’s reach. “I came for you.”

“Why?” Martin is barely aware as he speaks. Jon’s words, though muffled, reach his ears, but they mean nothing. The man standing in front of him is an aberration in this place. He can’t reach Martin.

“This isn’t right,” Jon says frantically. “This isn’t _you_.”

“It is, though.” It’s what he’s been the whole time. He can’t belong anywhere else. He can’t belong with…

The last shred of sentimentality blooms sharp in Martin’s chest, before it’s snuffed to a cold ember. A hollow chuckle leaves his throat. “I really loved you, you know?”

Jon’s voice rings faintly in Martin’s ears as his form dissipates. He emerges at another identical patch of beach. He stands on the shore, his gaze turned towards the horizon. The sound of waves nearly drown out the muffled echo of voices, and he listens.

* * *

Martin is disrupted from his reverie when a shrill ring of static peals through the air. He barely flinches at the sound—or at the understanding of Peter being dead. Footsteps approach behind him and he spares a glance at Jon.

“Martin.” Jon’s voice rings out clearer. For a second it cuts through the haze in Martin’s head. “He’s gone, Martin. He—he’s gone.”

The fog gradually lifts from Jon’s face. Martin can make out furrowing of his brow, his lips pulled into a tight frown, the dark bags under his eyes. The steady stream of his voice drowns out the stupor clouding Martin’s head.

“—but we need you. _I_ need you.”

Martin’s lips move of their own accord, words he can’t stifle, but there’s something tugging in his chest—reaching out to Jon.

A jolt runs through Martin when Jon cups his face in his hands. His palms are rough and scarred—and _warm_. The contrast to the chill running through Martin’s body makes him shiver.

“Martin,” Jon pleads. “Martin, look at me. Look at me and tell me what you see.”

Martin meets his gaze. The dark brown of Jon’s eyes is strikingly clear against the weak grey of his surroundings. The warmth in Martin’s cheeks spreads down his neck, reaching down to his toes.

“I see…”

A hopeful smile crosses Jon’s lips, and a sob wracks Martin’s chest.

“I see you, Jon.” Martin laughs in relief, and the last of the haze dissipates from his mind. “I _see_ you.”

“Martin.” Jon exhales sharply and wraps his arms around Martin, pulling him to his chest. Martin clings onto him and sobs into his shoulder. Jon runs a hand through his hair and over his back, whispering soothing words into his ear.

The bleak landscape that Martin had found a comfort up until mere moments ago now grows oppressive. Martin’s stomach turns at the thick fog hanging around them. Jon grips onto his hand, his thumb brushing over Martin’s knuckles, and meets his gaze. The panic rising up Martin’s back abates. Their hands clasped together, Jon guides them from that lifeless place back out—back home.

* * *

That is to say, they arrive back at the Institute—which, unfortunately, is the closest thing to a home both of them have had the past few months.

There’s evidence of carnage wreaked by Not Sasha, the hunters, and who knows what else—but they don’t come across anyone as they walk the halls.

“They’ve evacuated,” Jon mutters.

“And—there’s no…?” Martin holds up his hands, his fingers curling into claws.

Jon shakes his head. “We’re the only ones left.”

Martin lets out a shaky breath. “Right. That’s—good, I suppose.”

“Better than the alternative, yes.”

Martin wraps his arms around his middle. There’s still a lingering chill left on his skin and he shivers slightly.

“Are you alright?” Jon asks, his brows knit with worry.

“Oh, y—yeah,” Martin says with a nod. “Just a little chilly is all.”

Jon studies his face then nods decisively. “Let’s get you warmed up, then.”

Martin frowns. “No—no it’s alright, I’ll be fine, really—”

“You _weren’t_ fine.” Jon’s voice cuts through his words. He swallows hard and shakes his head. “Indulge me. Please.”

Martin’s breath catches in his throat. He nods. “Okay.”

Jon drags a hand over his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—I just—” He exhales shakily. “I want to make sure you’re alright.”

Tightness grips Martin’s chest. He feels the telltale sting of tears and he hastily takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes.

“Hey.” Jon’s voice is soft. He cups Martin’s face in his hands. Martin meets his gaze, and Jon smiles warmly. He leans down and presses his lips to Martin’s forehead. “I’ve got you.”

Martin sniffles, choking down a sob, but a weak smile spreads on his lips.

Jon thumbs trace across his cheeks. “You’re not alone anymore.”

Martin closes his eyes and leans into the touch. “Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with tears.

Jon leads Martin to his makeshift bedroom. It’s sparsely furnished, despite Jon having spent most of his nights there since he woke from his coma. He sits Martin down on the bed and wraps the thin blanket around his shoulders. 

“Is that better?” Jon asks, pulling the blanket so it covers Martin’s arms.

Martin nods, his shivering having abated slightly. He looks up at Jon with a lopsided smile. “Yeah.”

Jon exhales a sigh of relief. “I’ll—I could make you some tea, I’m sure there’s still some—”

Martin grabs Jon by the wrist. “Jon,” he says, laughter in his voice. “Sit down.” 

“I—right.” He clears his throat and settles down on the bed, next to Martin. His shoulders are stiff and his hands sit awkwardly on his lap. Martin reaches a hand out, his pinky brushing up against Jon’s. Jon looks up at Martin. Color has returned to his cheeks, and there’s a soft smile on his lips. The sight makes Jon’s heart flutter in his chest. The tension eases from his shoulders. He reaches his pinky out and links it around Martin’s. Martin sighs contentedly and leans onto Jon’s shoulder.

They let the moment linger, let themselves have this brief respite, before the inevitability of their reality reaches them. For now, there’s only the warmth of each other, their bodies and hearts linked together.

For now, this is right.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!
> 
> You can find me on:  
> tumblr @ [simsblackwood](https://simsblackwood.tumblr.com/) (TMA sideblog)  
> twitter @ [grantuseyes](https://twitter.com/grantuseyes)


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